


don't think, you can only hurt the ballclub

by soupypictures



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oakland Athletics, post-season blues, this was just a bit of catharsis ok totally normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 21:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16227269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupypictures/pseuds/soupypictures
Summary: The AL Wild Card game is a punch to the gut and Matt Chapman is having a tough time dealing with it. Matt Olson lends a hand.





	don't think, you can only hurt the ballclub

**Author's Note:**

> just .... don't ask. this fucking season, man. 
> 
> the usual disclaimer: none of this is real except the game. going with the tradition of hand-waving girlfriends when they're not public figures. it doesn't look like anyone's published fic about the A's in awhile and honestly ... that's a real damn shame. (the author knows that her story is fictional and she does not intend for anyone to actually believe that it is true.)

Matt Chapman wants to stay in Oakland with the foul territory and the drums and the chants and the bright clean blue sky with wisps of clouds but never any threat of rain. He wants to keep this team together and grow old together like the 2010 Giants. He loves this team and everyone on it. The reminder that Oakland _doesn’t_ keep teams together sets him on edge. He wants to make every throw across the diamond to Matt Olson who will keep picking his imperfect throws out of the dirt and making him look better than he really is. While Olson’s not likely to be going anywhere, and neither is he, you never know with this front office. Feels like they’re all living on borrowed time. And it’s still the first week of October and they’re done. The 2018 run is finished.

The flight home is awful. Everyone is disappointed, frustrated, deflated, headphones isolating them from one another. Matt can’t stop replaying the game in his head. He drifts in and out of consciousness, watches the game slip through his fingers over and over again. He’s not ready for this to be over.

He doesn’t have a choice.

\---

As is the grand Oakland tradition, Matt had gone in with Olson on a rental house out in Walnut Creek when it was made clear they’d be breaking camp with the big club. Matt had ulterior motives—whenever he was around Olson he felt like the pressure was off of him for a minute. They shared the spotlight and Olson did a good job of pulling it over to him when Matt was going through his typical self-deprecating shit.

Matt knows that he and Olson aren’t the only two Athletics to have lived in this particular house. There’s pictorial evidence in ESPN of Mark Mulder, Eric Chavez, and Mark Ellis sitting in the living room on rented couches with gaming controllers in their hands. Big smiles plastered on their faces. That was the selling point for Matt—Olson had only shrugged and said, “whatever you pick, man.” Matt likes a sense of history. Tradition. For Olson though it’s like nothing exists except the immediate present. Matt has come to admire that about him.

They’re set up on the couch with bottles of beer in their hands and the TV on mute showing some action movie. Matt can’t stop fidgeting, tapping the back of the couch where his arm is resting and Olson sighs, tugs on his wrist. “Come here,” he says and Matt lets himself be hauled close into Olson’s side, Olson’s right arm slung over his shoulders, hand cupping the joint. In the dugout they’re always shoved up against each other, hanging on each other up on the rail. Matt loves that, loves the closeness and the feeling of belonging, his brothers-in-arms who will accept his presence without a second glance. Reality away from the ballpark is a touch-starved existence and Matt is grateful to his marrow that Olson doesn’t flip the switch when they walk out of the stadium. “Let it out, I know it’s eating at you.”

But there’s so much _eating_ at him he wouldn’t even know where to start in letting it out. He sits silently instead, picking at the label of his beer, Olson’s body a line of warmth and comfort. Familiarity. They’re franchise players, really, but they’ve got a shelf life together like anyone else, and Matt wouldn’t count on more than another two seasons together before Forst gives one or both of them up for spare parts. They’ve spent enough hours on this couch just like this for Matt to know exactly what he’d be missing. He misses it already.

It’s hard not to be bitter when you play for Oakland and want to stay.

Olson sighs again. “You can cry if you need to. It’s alright. I won’t tell.”

That honestly hasn’t even crossed his mind since he came off the field in New York, since KD caught him up in a tight hug whispering, _love you, man, it’s alright_. “I don’t need to cry, I just—I thought we’d be at practice today, you know? I feel like I’m going crazy. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. We should be doing something right now, not watching Die Hard on mute.”

"Well, we could go to In-N-Out? Get you a shake and some fries."

Matt shakes his head, miserable.

"We could find a movie we actually want to watch. I got that list from Marcus—"

"I don't want to watch a movie. Not really."

"You want to go to the field? I know it ain't the same but maybe you just need to work off some of that energy."

Matt leans more into Olson's side and shakes his head again. "Don't think I could bear it."

Olson squeezes his shoulder. “Okay. Well. You could fuck me if you want.”

That surprises a laugh out of Matt. “Good one, Oly.”

“Nah, I’m serious.”

Matt pulls away from Olson, watches the first baseman’s profile as he tips his beer bottle up to polish it off. Anyone else would wonder if Olson even knew what he’d said he looks so calm, but not Matt. He sees Olson’s tight jaw, mouth turned hard. “It’s not really a big deal, Chappy, you can forget I said that.”

“Not a big deal?” It comes out of his mouth all high-pitched, incredulous. Olson jerks his head around and his eyes get sharp and Matt backtracks. “No! Not like—in general, no. It’s not a big deal. I don’t care—but I—how could it not be a big deal? If I—if we did that?” There’s a voice in the back of his head yelling _no! You’re supposed to be saying no thank you!_ but he ignores it. It’s been hovering at the edges of their friendship for months now and Matt had been ignoring it because he didn’t think, in any universe, Olson would ever say yes.

“Just releasing some tension. I like it, it’s been awhile, you’re here, I’m pretty sure you’ll like it. Why not?”

Matt can think of at least seventeen reasons _why not_ , has spent six months at least listing all of them, but he won’t bring those up now. “You never said,” he explains. Or tries to.

Olson shrugs and stands up. “It’s sex, man. Want another?” Matt shakes his head, takes a sip from his nearly-full bottle. Olson comes back a moment later with two fresh bottles anyway and Matt chugs his first. He has a vivid sense memory from last week, pounding beers in the clubhouse to get drunk fast, spraying champagne at the camera for the fans. Fuck.

“You really like it?” he asks again after they’ve both sat in silence long enough for Olson to get a quarter of the way through his second beer.

Olson raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. I do. Why?”

“It’s just ... you’re ...” at a loss for words, Matt gestures at Olson with his beer, head to toe, all 6’5” and 230 pounds of him sprawled on this couch in shorts and a shirt that now that Matt is paying attention, looks like his.

“Well, I could fuck _you_ but I figured—”

Eyes still on the fabric of the shirt stretched over Olson’s shoulders Matt interrupts, “No! I mean, no. I’ll. I just thought—”

“What, because I got five inches and 20 pounds on you it’s not my place?” He shrugs. “What can I say, I like it. It’s not a big deal, bro.”

“What about your girlfriend?” He can’t even remember her name, even though Olson’s been with her for as long as Matt’s known him. His awareness has taken a sharp turn into the studiously uncontemplated and Matt’s not sure of anything anymore. Except, perhaps, that he’s not upset that Olson’s wearing his shirt. He’s gone from platonic comfort to contemplating a brand of sex he’s never had before in the space of a few minutes.

“It’s whatever.”

Matt’s pretty sure it’s probably not whatever, but that’s not his relationship. If it doesn’t bother Olson, Matt isn’t going to let it bother him. “What do you like about it?”

That infernal shrug. “Feels good. Like, full. And kinda like ... I dunno, I just _like_ it. Not gonna dissect it. Could ask you what you like about getting your dick sucked and you’d say the same.”

Matt has a hard time believing that. Getting his dick sucked doesn’t feel full, first of all. And not ... invading, like he’s imagining this might be. Not like someone’s got power over him. He eyes Olson’s large frame with intent, and not for the first time, but for the first time he’s been explicitly allowed. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Olson lights up. “Yeah? Fuck yeah.”

He sets down his beer and leans over close, like this is what happens next and Matt should have realized, should have _thought_ , but the way Olson was talking about it sounded like maybe they’d just go right to the deed—and Olson stops, inches from his mouth. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to—”

He shakes his head and hooks his arm around Olson’s neck, anchoring him close. “No, let’s... I want to. Please,” he adds.

Olson grins again and it’s overwhelming this close. “C’mere then.”

Maybe Matt shouldn’t have been surprised by any of this. Maybe this was where everything had always been going, this instead. With Olson’s mouth working over his slowly, gently, one hand hooked around his side and the other holding his head in place, maybe the 2018 season wasn’t about playing deep into October, but instead priming him for this moment right here. He’s never had a thought like that, that something was more than baseball, and it’s fitting that should come right here, wrapped up in his first baseman’s arms with the breath kissed out of him.

“Stop thinking,” Olson murmurs, breaking away from Matt’s mouth and pushing him down onto the couch. “When’s the last time you got laid, man?” He drags his hands down Matt’s chest and hooks his fingers under the waistband of his jeans, yanks encouragingly when Matt doesn’t answer right away. “That long ago?”

It’s hard to think with Olson looking at him like that, with his hands so close to his dick, imagining where this is going. “All-Star Break?” That’s probably it. One of his old college hookups was in town and he steers clear of groupies. He knows how that makes him sound.

“Jesus.”

Olson levers himself off the couch and aggressively adjusts his dick. Matt lies on his back and looks up at him towering over the couch with the bright sunshine sneaking around the blackout curtains they’d hung six months ago.

“I’m gonna go get ready. Meet you in my room, just move the suitcase to the floor.”

Olson pulls Matt’s shirt off his own back as he turns the corner into the hallway leading back to the bedrooms. Their rooms share a wall and Matt’s only ever heard Olson with his girlfriend. Not men. His mind is reeling now that he’s thinking about it, now that he’s had Olson’s tongue in his mouth, dick pressing hard against his thigh. Has someone else on the team fucked him? Martini, maybe? No, Marcus—they’re always smiling and laughing at each other. Matt can feel Marcus in his arms in the clubhouse, shouting at Braden and picking him up like he was nothing, drunk strength and hubris fueling him. If anyone on the team had, it would have to be Marcus, right? But he’s close to Olson, too. They _live_ together and yet haven’t—at least, not until now.

Matt rolls off the couch and picks up his shirt on the way to Olson’s room. Right inside the door are Olson’s shorts and his boxers. The door to the en suite is cracked and Matt catches a glimpse of pale thigh. Fuck. He’s hard. He wants this, now that it’s on offer, and he casts about the room for some way to distract himself from what that could mean long-term. What it means about _him_ and who he is.

Olson is clattering around in the bathroom and Matt knows _exactly_ what he’s up to. Matt busies himself picking up discarded clothes and tossing them into the hamper, hauling the suitcase off the bed and turning down the sheets. He pokes around Olson’s nightstand, a stash of condoms in the top drawer along with a silicone dick and a bottle of KY his and hers. A baseball with a holograph sticker on it. Matt pulls out his phone and checks the code. Olson’s first hit. He hears the bathroom door creak and turns around to see Olson fully nude.

“No wonder you haven’t gotten laid since the All-Star Break. You need two solid days to get around to it. Get fucking naked, Chappy.”

“Why is your _first major league hit_ rolling around in a drawer with condoms and lube?”

“What, do you have yours displayed somewhere?”

“It’s at my mom’s,” he explains. He drops the ball back in the drawer. Olson is half-hard and just _standing_ there.

“Look, if you changed your mind, it’s fine. I’ll just,” he motions to the night stand, “and we can just pretend this didn’t happen.”

Matt pulls off his henley and unbuttons his jeans.

\------

Matt is physically gifted, that goes without saying. He’s a professional athlete, he excels at anything requiring hand-eye coordination and everything he’s put his mind to master with his body, he has.

None of that means anything right now, though. Flat on his back with Olson straddling his hips sinking down on his cock Matt has never felt less like he knows what he’s doing. He tears his eyes away from the place where they’re now joined, from Olson’s hard dick smacking against his abs, up to Olson’s face, tipped back now with a smirk Matt’s never seen before. “Breathe,” Olson says. “Bend your knees, come on. Fuck.” Matt breathes first and bends his knees second and Olson shifts his weight forward and Matt just—

“Oh _right_ there.” A drop of sweat falls from Olson’s hairline to Matt’s cheek and Matt grabs Olson’s thighs. Drives his hips up, over and over. “Feel good?” Olson pants down at him, opening his eyes. “Stop fucking _thinking_ , jesus christ.” He leans forward further with his forearms planted on either side of Matt’s head and Matt’s looking up at the pale skin of Olson’s chest giving way to his sun-touched neck. Olson is rocking back in his lap, taking him in deep. “You never stop thinking. Never stop—”

Matt slides his hands up Olson’s thighs and sinks his fingers into the meat of his ass. “Feels good, Oly.” Olson arches up and Matt leans up to press his tongue to his nipple, mouths it more when Olson groans. “I’m not going to last much longer,” he breathes, nips at Olson’s pectoral.

“Okay, just—give me a sec. No, keep fucking me but like hold on, I’m gonna—” He sits up and for a moment his weight prevents Matt from doing anything but then he’s got his feet under him and whatever he didn’t have a good look at before is on fully display. His left hand is holding his weight and his balance and his right is holding his cock, fully hard and dripping. There’s room now to thrust so he does, as hard as Olson wants it and that’s easily achieved, matching up their rhythms, by listening to sounds of Olson’s pleasure. They’re in sync, like they are on the field and as he pushes himself closer and watches Olson do the same he wonders if that’s because of all the time they spent together out on the field, the thousands of throws across the 120-odd feet between first and third, the ten-minute snatches of time shoulder-to-shoulder in the dugout, the hours before the game in the clubhouse and ones back here under this roof. Is it that, or is it something else? Is it them, specifically?

“Still thinking. Balls deep in me and still fucking thinking what does it take to get you out of your head, Chappy?”

“How are you so fucking good at this?” he asks instead of all the questions running through his head at a breakneck pace.

Olson grins, tips his head back, and comes all over his stomach, Matt still deep inside. “Practice,” he answers, and it’s how he says that one word and his smile and the way he’s clenching around him that has Matt coming too.

\---

The worst thing Olson could do now is make him go back to his own room but he doesn’t. Just pulls the sheets up over them both and they’re cleaned up and leans over to turn off the lamp. “It’s gonna be alright,” Olson says quietly. Matt scoots over enough to rest his head on Olson’s chest and despite what they just did, it feels like everything had before Olson had offered up his ass to make him feel better. “You win or you lose and sometimes it rains. Only one team can win it all and next year, next year it’s us.”

It’s not quite the quote but Olson’s always just a little off on everything and he still nails the sentiment. “I’ll get over it, it’s just gonna take some time.”

“Everyone heals at their own pace,” Olson says sagely and Matt laughs. “What’s so funny?”

“Do you have _anything_ in your repertoire that isn’t some fucking cliché?”

“It is what it is.” Matt looks up and catches the joke written all over his face. “You’re so easy, Chappy. Go to sleep. I’ll blow you in the morning and maybe that’ll turn off your fucking brain.”

The lease for the house runs out at the end of the month, which had been low-key stressing him out when he expected an October full of baseball. But now he’s got the gift of time and maybe he’ll get over this sooner rather than later with Olson here to distract him from his baseball apocalyptic thoughts. Probably he wouldn’t get traded before the month is out. Probably he can start planning for next spring, and the summer. Maybe right here again. Definitely, though, he’s gonna stick with Olson and let him try his damnedest to get him to stop thinking.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr at yessoupy, i'll be pouring salt in my 2018 wounds crying about tim lincecum. fuck off if you're a tinhat.


End file.
